Shepard stepped into the gloom behind him; it was quiet. The dilapidated nature of the shack made for a haphazard shelter, but distance and the sparse protection of the walls still muffled. There was a somewhat distant boom, the trailing edge of the battle at the Cornucopia, but for the moment this place offered a respite. Safety, of a sort.
It was a good opportunity for Shepard to find a wall and ease the kid down against it. Karkat slumped down almost immediately, limp as a doll, and his horns scraped against the wood on the way down. She knew, almost without looking, what he had gone, and at the sound, Shepard's face twitched, a micro-expression that could not be helped.
Well, Max could just damn well avert his eyes if he didn't want to see it; if she were lucky, maybe his eyes wouldn't have adjusted to the gloom.
Automatic efficiency guided her hands, palm on his chest, fingers at his throat. He was already cool to the touch, and when she prized open an eyelid it was flat, clouded by death.
"Damn it."
Shepard said it quietly, and hatred rose up like bitter bile, full of acid burn. She left her hand on his unmoving breast for a moment, breathing slowly, counting the seconds against her own heartbeat, until the tide subsided. Her face was a mask, eyes fixed on his unmoving face. She did not need to vow, not even to herself, that she would see the Capitol burn. It was as inevitable as the heat-death of the universe.
Something cold touched her hand, and she pulled the chain out of his shirt to examine the boy's token. One sharp jerk broke the chain, and she pocketed it without speaking.
"I need to take care of this," She told Max, not caring if he saw or understoof, and lifted Karkat's body both arms, and cradled him. He seemed lighter, now that she knew, and the realization of her own idiocy in carrying him this far, "I'll be back soon. Hold tight."
Burying him would be futile, and letting him rot nearby would attract attenion-- practically suicide. Dignity in death, that was never how the Games worked; you left bodies where the Capitol could take them, and you were grateful you weren't among them.
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It was a good opportunity for Shepard to find a wall and ease the kid down against it. Karkat slumped down almost immediately, limp as a doll, and his horns scraped against the wood on the way down. She knew, almost without looking, what he had gone, and at the sound, Shepard's face twitched, a micro-expression that could not be helped.
Well, Max could just damn well avert his eyes if he didn't want to see it; if she were lucky, maybe his eyes wouldn't have adjusted to the gloom.
Automatic efficiency guided her hands, palm on his chest, fingers at his throat. He was already cool to the touch, and when she prized open an eyelid it was flat, clouded by death.
"Damn it."
Shepard said it quietly, and hatred rose up like bitter bile, full of acid burn. She left her hand on his unmoving breast for a moment, breathing slowly, counting the seconds against her own heartbeat, until the tide subsided. Her face was a mask, eyes fixed on his unmoving face. She did not need to vow, not even to herself, that she would see the Capitol burn. It was as inevitable as the heat-death of the universe.
Something cold touched her hand, and she pulled the chain out of his shirt to examine the boy's token. One sharp jerk broke the chain, and she pocketed it without speaking.
"I need to take care of this," She told Max, not caring if he saw or understoof, and lifted Karkat's body both arms, and cradled him. He seemed lighter, now that she knew, and the realization of her own idiocy in carrying him this far, "I'll be back soon. Hold tight."
Burying him would be futile, and letting him rot nearby would attract attenion-- practically suicide. Dignity in death, that was never how the Games worked; you left bodies where the Capitol could take them, and you were grateful you weren't among them.